States of Flux
by Clairose
Summary: Sequel to After Hours. When odd things begin happening around her, Central City Hospital's doctor turned nurse goes to the one person who might be able to help her: Dr. Harrison Wells. Post 1x09. Spoilers. Wells/OC. In progress.
1. Chaos Theory

Aaaaand we're back. I really appreciate the feedback on _After Hours_, and decided to continue this. Will probably be about nine or ten chapters for what I'm envisioning, picking up essentially a few days after the end of _The Man in the Yellow Suit_. This is going to be predominantly from Wendy's POV, as I want to keep our lovely Dr. Wells as much of an enigma as possible, and to see an outsider's perspective on Team Flash. Let me know your thoughts :)

X X X

One: Chaos Theory

"Chaos is the score upon which reality is written." –Henry Miller

X X X

"Nora, I'm not so sure about this."

Wendy stared at herself in her friend's full length mirror, eyeing her reflection with mild suspicion. While she felt incredibly indebted to Nora and all the woman had done for her since she started working at Central City Hospital, Wendy was nearly _certain_ this was pushing the obligations of their friendship. After all, she was pre-med the last time she'd gone on a blind date – and it had ended just as comically ridiculous as any date she'd ever had.

"Nonsense!" Nora called from down the hall. "Don't forget the boots by the door and get out here! Pete should be here any minute."

The fact that her blind date was named Peter – Pete for short – did not escape her notice, either. At least it would be a funny lead in to recount the date, should the date evening with her wishing that her friend, Nora Emerson, RN, was not trying to take on a second career as her personal match maker.

Despite Nora's efforts to improve her love life, Wendy really was grateful for her. After working as a doctor for several years, making the switch to become a nurse had been more difficult than she had anticipated. The parameters for what she was now _allowed_ to do on her own versus what she was _capable of_ were narrower than when she was a doctor, and the restrictions took some getting used to. Pediatrics had been Wendy's natural inclination, as she'd always found working with children to be less stressful than working with adults. And being stationed on an inpatient ward was the farthest thing from trauma care she could think of. Nora had been her patient guide through all of it, and Wendy knew the woman's tutelage – hailing from over twenty years of nursing experience – was invaluable.

She just wished Nora wasn't so obsessed with setting her up on a date.

Wendy bent down to slide on the ankle boots Nora had laid out for her – for a woman in her 40s, she had far more fashion sense than Wendy – and looked herself over one last time in the mirror: the dark fitted jeans were hers, but Nora had loaned her a navy button-up blouse, yellow scarf and the cream-colored boots. She supposed she looked date-ready.

Picking up her pea coat off the bed (it was supposed to be in the 30s by later that night), Wendy headed down the hall and into the kitchen. Nora's face instantly lit up when she saw her.

"You look great, hun!" She said, smiling. "Elliott," she called to her husband, "She looks great!"

"What a relief," he deadpanned from where he was working in the den.

Wendy laughed, rubbing the side of her face as she tried not to let her nerves get the best of her. "Did Pete say where we were going?" She asked.

"_La Faim_, in downtown," came Elliott's response from the other room. "Three Michelin stars, I heard."

Wendy's eyes widened. She'd heard the other nursing staff talking about the new restaurant that had opened last week, and how incredibly hard it was already proving to even get a _reservation_ – and that was where she was going to have dinner on a first date?

_No pressure_, Wendy thought.

"Certainly a step up from Big Belly Burger, am I right?" Nora winked.

Wendy started to shake her head, well aware of her less-than-stellar eating habits and how much Nora _tsked_ her for them. Before she could say anything in her defense – that working graveyard, very little was open that time of night beyond fast food joints – the doorbell rang.

"That must be him!" Nora said, practically bouncing out of the kitchen to get the door.

"That," Elliott agreed as he entered the kitchen, "or we're about to be burgled."

Wendy couldn't help but shake her head, smiling to herself, as she listened to Nora greet who she assumed was her blind date in the other room. It felt like prom night, with Nora as her overexcited older sister and fairy godmother all wrapped in to one.

"I hope you have a good time tonight. Pete's a good guy," Elliott told her, nodding toward the door. "You deserve it, after everything you've been through."

Wendy's smile faltered a little at his words, but she nodded, despite the knots she felt forming in her stomach. She had confided in both of them about what had brought her to Central City in the first place, but it was rarely brought up.

"Thanks, Elliott," Wendy returned. "I hope so, too."

X X X

The greenhouse conservatory located just outside of Central City's metropolitan boundaries would be, on any other given night, a very peaceful place to spend one's time. Harrison Wells had never particularly found the appeal in walking amongst endless aisles of flora and fauna, but he had it on good recommendation from Caitlin that it could, in fact, be quite restorative. Cisco had actually been the first to relay this information to him, but he had taken it with a grain of salt at the time, as the young engineering prodigy had also been wearing his baseball cap backwards while attempting to do a skateboard trick in the lab at the time. Something called an "ollie," if memory served him correctly.

On this particular night, however, the conservatory was about to become the site of another test of Barry's abilities, and Harrison would be lying to himself if he didn't feel just a slight thrill at that prospect.

Even if there _was_ a plant-wielding murderess on the loose.

He quirked his head, studying the monitors that were feeding live footage of various angles of the conservatory grounds. Although he already possessed extensive knowledge on this particular meta-human, he had withheld most of it during Barry, Caitlin and Cisco's initial investigation of the odd murders that had occurred in the city suburbs over the last few weeks. Harrison tried to justify their deaths by reasoning that they were – ultimately – unavoidable, as the victims in question still appeared in future death records as having perished on the dates that Detective West had provided in relation to the crimes.

Although it was sound logic, it still bothered him somehow. His future knowledge of the meta's kills might have saved her victims, but there was no guarantee. There were some things even he couldn't change, much as he hated to admit it. And he needed to see how far along Barry's latest ability was progressing – and the nearly deserted conservatory almost insured there would be no further casualties.

This was what Harrison told himself, even as he felt his stomach tighten a little in disgust. Sacrifices were never meant to be easy, he supposed.

"Are you guys seeing this?"

Barry's voice over the comms link snapped Harrison from his thoughts, and he focused his eyes back on the monitor. All was still – until he glanced movement at the edge of the screen. Bramble bushes began to branch out from where they lined the edges of the conservatory windows at an alarmingly fast rate. The fauna wasn't the issue when it came to this meta, but the poison of some of the flora that she could manipulate _was_.

"What am I dealing with here? Caitlin?" Barry's voice echoed throughout the lab.

Harrison glanced next to him where Caitlin, two monitors over, typed furiously across her keyboards.

"_Rubus idaeus_!" The doctor said affirmatively, nodding her head.

Harrison would have to remind her that Barry wasn't able to see her nod or shake her head (or deathly glares) when he was in the field.

Barry disappeared from the monitor momentarily to avoid the brambles attempting to ensnare him, and Harrison caught him on another angle outside the greenhouse.

"You say that like I speak Latin," Barry called, a little breathless. "Will it kill me or not?"

"Only if you're allergic to raspberries," Caitlin responded. "Which you're not, because I've reviewed all your medical records multiple times–"

"Caitlin," Harrison interrupted, his eyes still on Barry, who was now flying into action to shred the harmless brambles into confetti. "A list of all poisonous species kept at the conservatory, please," he requested.

"Right," Caitlin said, and went to work. "On it."

X X X

"Would you like another glass of the _St. Julien_?"

Wendy looked up from her plate, glancing at the waiter holding out the opened bottle of red wine Pete had ordered at the beginning of the meal. She looked at her date across from her, who was just finishing off his second glass and seemed to be awaiting her response as well.

She knew he was leaving it up to her, whether or not she wanted a second glass before dessert arrived. If you'd asked her while she'd been getting ready for the date, she would've declined. But Pete had turned out to be a pleasant surprise thus far – smart, witty, and not too hard on the eyes, either, with his light brown hair and dark brown eyes. He worked with Elliott as a engineer but was already on his way to becoming the man's superior, but the success didn't seem to go to his head. In fact, it seemed to humble him, if anything.

"Yeah, thanks," Wendy answered and saw Pete sit up a little straighter across from her, smiling at her affirmative.

After filling her glass, the waiter whisked off again with the promise to return with their dessert orders soon.

_La Faim_ was fairly busy when they'd first arrived. The modern layout of the restaurant was open and airy and possessed surprisingly good acoustics – Wendy supposed that was par for the course for a place that had garnered such rave reviews before it'd even officially opened. Pete had secured them a table by the floor to ceiling windows that looked out onto the busy evening streets. The soft lighting from within and the Christmas lights that adorned the lampposts outside cast a warm and festive glow over their table. Traffic had wound down as the night went on, and Wendy had to admit, she wasn't paying much attention to the time.

"So, you like the wine?" Pete asked as she took a sip.

Wendy nodded appreciatively, setting the down the glass. "I've had Bordeauxs. . .but this one is really great. Have you had it before?"

Pete looked down, and the action seemed almost self-conscious to Wendy – though she couldn't fathom what he could be self-conscious about. It had been an excellent choice and had gone perfectly with the veal she'd ordered for dinner.

"Yeah, it's kind of a hobby of mine – of my family's, too," he replied, vague.

Wendy tilted her head, interested. "Hobby?"

Pete bit his lip before answering, and Wendy found the action endearing. How could he still be nervous with dessert on the way? Conversation had been easy between them since they sat down, allowing Wendy to forget the time, to enjoy what was her Friday evening before a long weekend. She didn't have to be back at the hospital for five days, her schedule having switched at the start of December. She certainly didn't feel nervous, just a pleasant sense of being at ease.

"Maybe legacy is more of a better word," Pete elaborated after a beat.

Wendy's eyes widened and she leaned in, despite herself. She wasn't lying when she'd said she felt rusty when it came to dating, but two glasses of that Bordeaux seemed to be working wonders on her.

"Well, now you have to tell me more," she said, almost conspiratorially.

Pete laughed, and it sounded incredibly pleasant to Wendy's ears. "My father owns land near Bordeaux in France."

She blinked, and then looked at the label of the wine bottle on the table, and then back at Pete. She hadn't been expecting that.

"Your family _owns_ St. Julien?" She asked, impressed. Nora and Elliott certainly hadn't mentioned that. But then again, by the way Pete was self-consciously rubbing the side of his neck now, perhaps even _he_ hadn't told them.

"It's not something I generally like to broadcast," Pete explained, confirming her thoughts. "But Nora mentioned you were a fan of red wine."

"She did, did she?" Wendy said, smiling despite herself. "What else did she tell you?"

Pete didn't hesitate with his answer, eyes completely on her. "That you're one of the brightest people she's ever worked with. That the kids at the hospital love you."

The compliments made her blush profusely, and Wendy wondered if Nora had told him about how easily embarrassed she became, too, whenever the spotlight was on her.

"Nora's really sweet," Wendy started to say, but Pete interjected.

"She's right, though," he said gently, as if sensing her embarrassment from just a moment ago. "How could the kids _not_ be crazy about you?" He leaned forward, gesturing toward her with one hand. "You gave up a career as a doctor to devote more time to your patients as a nurse."

_Gave up. _She supposed that was one way of putting it. It sounded better than abandoned. . .the reminder of her career change made Wendy wince inwardly, and she looked down. She knew he meant well by his words, but it was still a tender subject for her, even over a year later. She wasn't sure if it would ever be something that didn't make her flinch. Obviously Nora hadn't told him _why_ she'd become a nurse.

"Hey," she heard Pete say as he reached out to touch her hand.

Wendy looked up to meet his eyes, and was touched by the concern she saw in them. She was about to say something else, something placating, when movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. It was a split second before she registered the bright, careening flashes as they claimed her full attention: headlights.

It was a car, a hulking one, and it was barreling straight toward her, the restaurant and everyone inside.

"Pete–!"

There was screeching, the blaring of car horns (more than one?), the sound of a million shards of glass shattering in symphony as the headlights overwhelmed her vision, and then screaming.

X X X

"You have _got_ to be kidding me, Caitlin!"

Barry sounded shrill even over the comms and, if the situation weren't so dire, Harrison might have smirked at the crack Cisco made about the kid not having made it through puberty yet. He definitely wouldn't have smiled.

"The plants she controls feed off of the oxygen in the surrounding environment. Deprive her of her energy source, and you deprive her of her power," Caitlin relayed urgently, her hand nearly crushing the neck of the mic she spoke through.

The meta human was somewhere in the main conservatory with Barry, but her camouflaging abilities were proving to be more than just a minor obstacle than they'd first calculated. She'd already tried to take him out with several poisonous bulbs and trap him with a genetically enhanced genus of ivy whose branches possessed incredibly high tensile strength.

Their best chance was to trap her in the conservatory, and then detain her beneath the lab in their makeshift prison.

"I know _how_ the chemistry of it works, I do happen to have a Master's in biochem–" Barry began, defending himself.

"Then what's the problem?!" Caitlin admonished, eyes widening from her frustration.

"I just can't destroy the place! Iris loves–"

"Seriously, dude, _not_ the time to be thinking of your lady love," Cisco cut in.

Harrison refrained from rolling his eyes, silencing him with a look as he moved up next to Caitlin, taking the mic from her. She was quiet, but he could see the anger in the set of her jaw, arms crossed. Barry was going to pay for that remark later.

"Barry, you can contain the flames to the cleared pathways throughout the greenhouse," Harrison told him levelly. "You already know how."

"I do?" Barry asked over the comms.

This was never going to work long-term unless he started believing in himself, and Harrison needed him to do that now – when he was under pressure, and didn't have a steady backup plan to rely on. The future remained on shaky ground, always.

"Tornadogenesis!" Barry breathed after a moment, and Harrison watched as he flew into action, relaxing a little. The natural friction from his speed was enough to spark a fire, and it quickly filled all their screens. The flames grew in circular patterns as they cascaded upward towards the high glass ceilings, but they were contained to where Barry directed them. The fire leached nearly every atom of the oxygen from the environment, but not enough to cause him to lose consciousness. Not yet anyway.

The meta human materialized in the corner of one of the monitors, unable to maintain her camouflage, and before Harrison could draw another breath, the Flash streaked across the screen and the not-so-environmentally friendly murderess was bound in the electrical cuffs that Cisco had designed for their future captives a few weeks ago.

Harrison sat back as Barry disappeared with the cuffed meta human from the screen, and smiled.

"Wow," Cisco breathed, wholly impressed. "That's a new one under the abilities column."

Caitlin didn't say anything, but Harrison could see the appreciative look in her eyes as she kept her eyes resolution on the monitors. The flames were but embers now without Barry there to funnel them into life.

Harrison was about to leave and make his way down the detainment chamber when he saw Cisco's face fall, the young man's normal joviality turned to a worried frown.

"Cisco?" He said, Caitlin picking up on his change in demeanor as well. "What's wrong?"

Cisco looked at him, gesturing toward the screen. "Felicity routed us in to the police scanners in case of city-wide emergencies that Barry might be able to diffuse."

Harrison perked up at that, his jaw setting in mild irritation. While he appreciated Felicity's efforts to assist them in their endeavors, Harrison knew how extensive her capabilities were, and how much more powerful they would become. He would have to do a thorough sweep of the systems to ensure she didn't install anything that would jeopardize his work. Felicity Smoak was a genius, but she hadn't seen the whole picture. Yet.

"_All_ of them?" Caitlin said, sounding impressed, as she walked up behind him to glance over his shoulder.

Cisco winced. "Looks like it's a pretty bad wreck on Main."

"Oh my. . ." Caitlin said, reading from the bulletin on the screen. "_Three_ cars crashed into a restaurant? How could that have happened? Rush hour's over."

There was a snap in the air, and some of the files on the desk fluttered as Barry appeared before them, momentarily oblivious to their concern. "What do you think of. . ." he paused, and held up his hands, as if framing a sign, ". . ._Poison_ Ivy?"

When no one immediately responded, Barry paused, taking in the morose looks on his colleagues' faces. "Who died, guys?" He said, half-joking, half-wary.

"I think you need to get downtown," Harrison told him, eyes flitting to the monitor. Civilian assignments only seemed to improve Barry's desire to help others and dedicate himself to the development of his abilities. "There's been an accident."

According to the report, there were already seven pronounced dead at the scene; including two children. He was never happy to see that.

Barry's face changed immediately, taking on a hard, determined edge. And in the next moment, he was gone.

X X X

There was light and harsh sound all around her that made her flinch as she woke, even though her eyes were still closed. She hadn't remembered falling asleep, but that wasn't uncommon with how many doubles she'd been pulling lately. That still didn't explain the sound, though. . .and the lights. . .why were there so many colored lights just beyond her eyelids? The only lamps she had in her apartment emitted a soft, golden glow.

Her eyes fluttered open, an influx of light flooding her vision. It blinded her for a second until she focused and realized, belatedly, that she was staring at a strange ceiling light. Strange, because it wasn't like the ones in her apartment. They were like the lights that had adorned the ceilings of _La Faim_.

She felt her heart jolt within her chest, and she began to sit up, relieved that she could move at all. Her neck was incredibly stiff, but she could wiggle her fingers and toes. That was a good sign. Memories started surfacing in flashes as she swallowed, her throat incredibly dry. . .she had been eating dinner. With Pete. They had been talking about wine and her career.

"Ma'am, please stay where you are," a voice from somewhere above floated down to her, gently pressing her back down on her back. "Try not to move. We're going to get you out of here as soon as we can."

It didn't make sense. Why was she staring at the ceiling? Where was Pete? And why did everything sound fuzzy to her? She had perfect hearing, last she checked.

She tried to crane her neck, and was met with a sharp pain that lanced up into the base of her skull. She groaned, and felt hands palpate along her neck, just under her jaw. Her body was sore, but she could move her limbs and her vision seemed alright. At least for the moment.

Where was Pete?

She tried to roll over, despite what the voice had told her, cringing as she heard glass crunch beneath her bare arms (the blouse Nora had loaned her had been sleeveless, right? That's why she felt the shards on her skin.) They didn't cut into her, however, as she turned on her side, but she didn't pay any mind to that now. What she saw then made her wished she'd never woken up in the first place.

Pete was lying just a few feet from her, two paramedics surrounding him as they pressed gauze onto his abdomen, preparing to slide him onto a gurney. His light blue dress shirt was soaked in dark red, darker than the Bordeaux they had been drinking earlier. The pool of blood he was lying in was big enough to fill a punch bowl, and it made her stomach turn. His head lolled to the side, eyes closed, mouth slightly open in unconsciousness.

Oh God, what had _happened?_

"Ma'am, I need you to turn on your back," the paramedic beside her was saying.

_I'm fine_, she wanted to tell him. _I feel fine_, though she had no idea how. She forced herself up onto her elbow, head swimming for a moment before it righted itself. Her eyes took in the utter chaos before her. A massive SUV several feet to her left, hood smoking, and another farther in, bodies of restaurant goers lay everywhere, some moving, some not. All of them looking beaten and bloodied like discarded rag dolls. Lights flickered and sparked. First responders were already there, and she saw several policeman as well. Glass and table cloths lay on the floor. Several of those beautiful modern ceiling lights hung on thin metal cords, one just above her head.

"Ma'am, please–"

But she waved him off, more forcefully this time. When she first opened her mouth, her throat was dry. Speaking hurt, but she swallowed, and tried again.

"Help _them_," she pleaded, pushing his hands away from her and staggering into a sitting position. "I'm fine, just _help_ the others."

The paramedic looked reluctant, but one quick glance to the scene around them, and he nodded, grim, and left her to attend to another woman several feet off from her. A wave of nausea hit her then, and she shifted on to all fours to steady herself. She fell back to sit on her ankles, head continuing to swim. The paramedics were lifting Pete away toward a waiting ambulance outside on the street, and she watched, stunned and helpless as people and lights continued to move around her.

How the hell had she survived?


	2. Angiogenesis

Now that the school quarter's winding down, I finally have time to breathe. No Harrison in this chapter, but I promise he makes a splash in the next. Here's the next installment, and I hope to get another one out during my break :)

X X X

Two: Angiogenesis

"Scars are just another kind of memory." –M.L. Stedman

X X X

She should be going in to shock, but she wasn't.

So, she did the only thing that her mind could clearly process at that moment in time: triage.

With as clear a head she could manage, she surveyed the scene: firefighters moved around the periphery, securing the area and extinguishing flames that had sprung up from the under carriage of the SUV that had careened into the restaurant front. . .where was the SUV's driver? There were still only two paramedics that she could see, the one who had been trying to help her earlier now tending to Pete. The other hovered over an elderly man closer toward the now destroyed entrance. She didn't recognize them, but that didn't mean anything. She was more familiar with the medics that worked the districts closer to Central City Hospital, not those this far uptown.

Shoving her tangled hair out of her face, she scanned the rest of the victims. Those that could move where standing on shaky feet, holding on to each other for support. She stood up now, too, the first responders around her barely sparing her a glance.

And then she saw it – a dark pool marring the once pristine cream-colored tile caught her eye. A woman lay on the ground, a splintered chair leg protruding from her thigh through the fabric of her pants.

Wendy moved to kneel beside her, pressing her fingers to her throat in search of a pulse. The woman's eyes fluttered at the slight pressure, but didn't open. A steady ooze of dark blood dripped down her thigh to join the pool her body rested in. It couldn't be more than a liter, and it was slow. That was a good sign.

Wendy pressed her hand to the woman's thigh, applying pressure, eyes searching the area around her for something she could use as a tourniquet. The splintered wood had probably pierced a vein and not an artery, but she still needed to stem the blood flow. When she swiveled back around, something yellow caught her attention, and she remembered the scarf Nora had loaned her earlier that night.

Sliding it off, Wendy carefully lifted the woman's leg enough to snake one end of the garment underneath, making quick work of a tourniquet; the woman groaned at her ministrations. Wendy only hoped it would buy her enough time to be operated on and repair the damage.

A quick, red flash to her right made her jump, and she turned to see the city's newly minted hero at the destroyed restaurant entrance, his face hardening as he registered the chaos of the situation. She was still getting used to the fact that both her former city of residence, as well as her current one, were being watched over by masked men in leather suits. It wasn't a perk of every metropolitan city, that was for sure.

The Flash turned toward her and, when she blinked next, he was at her side. He looked between her and the bloody tourniquet that Wendy's hands were still clamped over.

"What can I do to help?" He asked her. Had she not been so disoriented from events that night, she would have been touched at the gravity of compassion she heard in his voice.

"She lacerated a femoral vein," Wendy explained, surprised to hear her own voice shaking. "Can you get her to the ER?"

The Flash nodded, one arm reaching out to cradle the woman's head, the other slipping under her knees.

"Her tourniquet!" Wendy said urgently, as he stood. "Hold it tight."

He moved to press his hand firmly against where Wendy had tied the scarf, and then was gone in a flash of red when she blinked again.

_Could this night become any more surreal?_ The errant thought struck her as she turned away to see two firefighters lifting wreckage off of a table that had pinned the legs of two people who were struggling to move out from under it; another paramedic tending to an elderly man. She could feel the adrenaline begin subside, but then a small pair of legs from behind the wheel well of the SUV caught her eye, and she blanched, rushing forward toward the young girl.

A table cloth had been cast over her, her face obscured by it. Wendy ripped it back, checking her extremities first for any injuries. She lifted the girl's shirt to expose her stomach and saw blotchy red swelling streaked down her side. Her fingers went to her wrist next, the best place to take the pulse of a child, and held her breath as she waited for the math to work itself out in her head – it was weak and sporadic, at best: internal bleeding. She needed to be transported as soon as possible. She went to check for head trauma when her eyes finally fell on the girl's face, her strawberry blonde hair cast across her forehead as her head lolled to one side.

Paralyzed by the color of the hair, Wendy felt the memory rip itself from where she'd buried it in her mind to the forefront.

"Reese! Got another one for the ambo!"

It was a voice that sounded so far away from her, yet familiar. She turned to see the paramedic that had tried to help her earlier moving beside her, registering the girl's internal injuries and speaking into his radio.

Wendy fell back on to her knees, numbness ebbing from her chest, into her limbs and up through her head. She leaned back against the wheel of the SUV, and watched as paramedics lifted the girl onto a stretcher, carrying her away out of sight.

X X X

Barry was returning to the crash scene for a fourth time when he spotted her: the same woman who'd fashioned a tourniquet from her scarf. She sat near the SUV, seemingly oblivious to the commotion around her now, gaze out of focus on the ground.

"Barry," he heard Caitlin's voice in his ear. "They're saying the scene is clear of critical victims."

While he was relieved to hear that, he still wasn't sure it was entirely true. He walked toward the woman, and squatted in front of her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

She flinched, but didn't meet his gaze.

"Hey, are you okay?" Barry asked gently. It sounded silly even to him, but what else was he supposed to say? He wasn't very good at this kind of thing, comforting strangers in times of need. As Barry Allen, he was bumbling and awkward in run-of-the-mill social situations. As the Flash, he usually didn't have to talk very much. . .he just kind of swooped in and saved the day. And everything else seemed to just work itself out. People who knew him somehow found this quality of his endearing, and those that didn't always graced him that same look of poorly concealed confusion.

Caitlin or Felicity would know what to say to this woman. They would know how to put her at ease.

She finally looked up, her eyes focusing slowly on him, taking in his mask, his hand on her shoulder. Then her gaze drifted past him, to the subsiding chaos around them. The retreating ambulances and fire trucks. He could hear police sirens, their squad cars drawing closer in the distance.

"Would _you_ be?" She asked, her voice brittle, barely above a whisper. "Are you?" She asked, her eyes flicking to his.

Barry felt his stomach tighten at her words, and he glanced over his shoulder. The police were nearly here. He needed to leave, and soon.

"Barry, Central City's finest will want a word or two with you if you're still there in a few minutes," Dr. Wells' voice echoed his thoughts.

He paused, his eyes going between the woman and the approaching squad cars outside the restaurant. She had her knees pulled up to her chest now, arms wrapped tightly around herself. He felt guilty leaving her – leaving _anyone_ – in that kind of state, but he knew he didn't have a choice.

"I think that woman is going to make it because of you," Barry decided to tell her. He couldn't know for sure, she'd been whisked away to surgery when he'd arrived at the emergency room – after the attending there had gotten over their momentary shock of seeing the Flash in their midst. This had been the first time he'd delivered a victim to the hospital. Somewhere, deep down, he knew it wouldn't be the last, either.

She nodded, but didn't say anything, keeping her arms wrapped protectively around her knees.

He was beginning to understand why Oliver didn't smile as much as he did after a save.

"Barry, you need to _go_. . ." Caitlin urged him again.

It took him the space of three breaths to return to the lab. He slipped off his mask and collapsed into a chair next to Cisco, eyes on the ground. No one said anything for a moment, until his mentor broke the silence.

"It's different when you're not dealing with meta humans," Dr. Wells' said. "Every save isn't going to be a clean one."

Barry looked up, noting for the first time the sad looks on Caitlin and Cisco's faces. They hadn't been at the scene with him, but they'd heard everything he had. It reminded him of the night his mother was killed, that gnawing feeling of helplessness. Even now, with his abilities, he had done everything he could to minimize the damage caused by the accident tonight, but he hadn't been able to prevent it.

"You did everything you could, Barry," Cisco added quietly. He reached out to place a hand on his shoulder from where he sat.

"Thanks, Cisco," Barry replied, his eyes still downcast.

Caitlin was smiling weakly at the exchange, but a concerned frown was forming between her eyebrows. "Who were you talking with? Just before you left."

Barry leaned back in his chair, running his hands over his face, as if to scrub the images of the carnage from his mind. The vacant look of the woman who'd been helping the other victims – he recognized that look whenever he went to visit his dad at Iron Heights, or when Caitlin got lost in thought about Ronnie and the future they could've had. It hadn't been her first time seeing something that had shaken her down to her bones.

"A woman at the crash scene," he replied.

Caitlin nodded, her face softening at the exhaustion he was sure was etched on his face. "She helped you?"

The wording made Barry pause, suddenly realizing the import of her words. A civilian had helped _him_ during a crisis and he had helped everyone at that scene as well. He could say definitively that that was a first since he'd donned the red suit.

"Yeah, she did," Barry said. "I think she had medical training. Made a tourniquet out of a _scarf_."

"Quick thinking," Cisco commented, his mouth pulling down into an appreciative shrug.

Barry stood, sighing deeply as he moved to leave the lab area. It had been a long night – he wanted to shower, pass out and not wake up until at _least_ tomorrow afternoon. Good thing he didn't have work the next day.

"Barry–" Dr. Wells' voice made him glance back over his shoulder, pausing. "Good work, tonight."

X X X

"_Dr. Wendy! Look! Look what my brother got me."_

_Wendy walked into the hospital room, already smiling at the excited look on her young patient's face. The pre-op wing of Glades Memorial was located on the eastern facing side of the hospital grounds. Early morning sunlight spilled into the room, creating a halo around the strawberry blond curls of her patient. Her elder brother stood at her bedside, his usually stoic face lightening to match the joy on his sister's. He was wearing his coveralls and bright orange shirt, probably just having gotten off shift at the work site. He had been working nights the past several weeks to help pay for their insurance bills. Wendy had known the pair for months now leading up to the surgery, and the day had finally come._

_Her patient, Lainey, was waving a small wooden case in front of her, still in its plastic packaging. Wendy knew the girl had a passion for art, even at such a young age. She was to begin middle school in the fall, and had told Wendy on numerous occasions how she wanted to pick as many art classes for her electives as possible._

"_A new set of oils?" Wendy asked, logging in to the computer at the girl's bedside. She wanted to double check a few stats first, and then the girl would be moved to surgery prep._

"_Colored pencils!" Lainey corrected her, running her hands over the edges of the wooden art case. "Wyatt says I need to practice all types of art to become the best."_

_Wendy's eyes flicked to the man in question at her patient's bedside. When Lainey's case had first been referred to her, she had assumed the guardian name on all the documents was the girl's father, and was surprised to discover that it was her elder half-brother instead. Their childhoods were all too common for citizens who lived in the Glades – both having grown up in the area for their entire lives. Wyatt hadn't actually been aware that he had a sister until DHS had paid him a visit a few years ago, informing him that if he didn't adopt her, she'd end up in the system. It was a tall order for any person in their twenties to have thrust upon them, but Wyatt had risen to the challenge. Their history was in part why Wendy had agreed to take the case._

"_Your brother knows what he's talking about," Wendy commented, her eyes back on the monitor, and she missed the subtle blush that rose up to color Wyatt's cheeks._

"_I know," Lainey smiled confidently, looking up at Wyatt. "He's a good brother."_

_That elicited a chuckle from Wyatt, and he ruffled Lainey's hair in response. "Thanks, Lane. Vote of confidence from you goes a long way."_

_Wendy continued flipping through records and paused on Lainey's latest blood results, drawn last night when she'd begun fasting for the surgery. She frowned._

_Wyatt's voice was cautious from behind her. "Something wrong–"_

Wendy jolted awake, her heart dipping irregularly for a beat as she realized, every time she had this dream, that it was just that: a dream, a memory – and not a current, haunting reality. At least, not anymore. Not since she'd moved to Central City.

For a moment, Wendy didn't know where she was. The ceiling she was looking up at was painted a creamy yellow, not the stark white of her apartment. She turned on her side to stare at a big screen TV that certainly wasn't hers, and an antique glass-stained coffee table. There was a bottle of water and two white pills on a coaster on the table. Pushing herself up on her elbow, she surveyed the rest of her surroundings – and then she remembered.

She was on Nora and Elliott's couch. They had found her in the ER being treated for shock the night before, and drove her home to their apartment despite her protests. She'd taken a quick shower, going through the motions as a zombie might, and had changed into spare pajamas Nora had given her. Her clothes from last night were probably still lay in a dusty, bloody heap in the bathroom.

Sitting up, slowly, she swung her feet around to the floor and took the water and pills. They went down roughly, her throat dry. She wasn't sure if it was from the dust and smoke inhalation, or from dehydration. Probably a combination of both.

It was still dark outside, so she couldn't have slept very much. She walked into the kitchen, and saw the time in green numbers on the microwave: 6:23 AM. The thought of food made her stomach clench, and so she made her way to the bathroom, moving quietly so as not to wake Nora and Elliott.

She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, assessing, trying to push images of all the blood and broken bodies from her mind. Her hair had curled naturally from sleeping in it wet, the eyeliner she'd applied the night before smudged around its edges. Her skin was pale under the halogen lights. She leaned in close, searching her face, her neck and bare arms for any evidence of what had occurred less than twelve hours ago. She lifted the T shirt she was wearing – no bruising or cuts on her stomach. She didn't feel achy, besides a slight headache.

Leaning in closer, her eyes focused on her face, to the space just above her right eyebrow, and her breath caught. . .she was fifteen when she'd been cleated in the head during a soccer match – it was her school's championship and she'd been going all out, but so had the players on the other team. The resulting scar had been a thin, half-inch long jag through her eyebrow. No hair grew back over it, and so it had come to separate her brow over the outside corner.

It was gone now; her eyebrow was a pristine, unbroken line over her socket.

Wendy shook her head, scrubbing her hands over her face. She looked again in the mirror, but the same reflection stared back at her: her face, devoid of her scar and, now that she looked closer, the slight wrinkles she'd developed around her eyes in the last few years since entering her thirties, too. She could barely see them.

She turned quickly away from the mirror, feeling bile rise in her stomach as fear and confusion skittered through her. She ran her hands through her hair, forcing herself to breathe in and out through her nose in even, steady intakes. She had to be seeing things. Dehydration. Sleep deprivation. Post-traumatic stress disorder.

Because the alternative was much, much worse.

X X X

Jitters was weathering the tail end of its morning rush when Wendy walked in. Nora had insisted on coming with her, but she'd gently declined, reminding her that she had to be on shift in just an hour and Wendy had – on orders from their charge nurse – the next few days off. She planned to visit Pete in the hospital later, though just the thought of that made her gut clench up in fear again.

What could she possibly say to him?

"What can I get for ya?" The barista behind the register, a young man with gelled back hair, asked her. His smile seemed genuine, and though Wendy wanted to return it, she only managed a weak twitch of her lips.

"Ah–" Wendy paused, glancing up quickly at the menu. She usually order chai, but she didn't think that amount of caffeine was going to cut it today. "I'll take the Caffeinator, sixteen ounce."

The barista grabbed a cup and wrote her order in Sharpie. "That'll be five-thirty," he said.

Wendy handed a ten dollar bill to him. "Keep the change," she said, and the young man's eyes widened, thanking her again as she shuffled off to wait for her coffee order. There were a few other patrons standing near her, waiting for their orders as well. One man in a finely-tailored suit checked his watch about every twenty seconds, and another well-dressed woman with long, dark-blond hair on her cell phone, a frown marring her features. Though she was speaking quietly, Wendy could catch most of her conversation, unintentionally eavesdropping as she continued to stare at the girl behind the counter working the espresso machine with practiced ease.

"I don't know more than that, dad," the woman was saying. "DA Kessler just called me in to consult. He thinks the stash recovered in the SUVs last night is connected to that RICO case I've been working."

Wendy's shoulders tightened. She glanced furtively toward the woman, studying her appearance further. Her maroon pant suit looked expensive, her hair styled simply but elegantly in loose curls. The black cell phone she was holding looked outdated, not the usual iPhone or Samsung models she knew were so popular. Unless it was a work-issued phone. . .

"Triple nonfat cap for Laurel!" The girl called out. Her black hair was bouncing as she moved behind the counter, placing the coffee order on the to go counter.

The woman in question looked up with a smile, taking her coffee with a quiet thank you. She walked past Wendy with a steady stride, her heels clacking on the tiled floor of the café.

"I'll be fine, dad, really," she said. "I'm meeting with the detective this afternoon. . ."

Wendy watched the woman as she left the café, a heightened sense of awareness creeping through her at the woman's – Laurel's – words: stash? Drug stash? Wendy shivered at the thought. There was a reason she had never entertained the idea of law enforcement as a possible career choice.

"Sixteen ounce Caffeinator!" The girl called out.

Stepping up to collect her order, Wendy paused, a thought striking her.

The girl noted her hesitation, flashing her a quick smile. "Something else you need?" She asked.

Wendy glanced to the café entrance, then back to the girl. "Yeah, actually," she said. "I'm kind of new in town." Not a complete lie – she _had_ only lived here a year. "I was wondering – where's the closest precinct?"

She arched an eyebrow in question, switching out mugs to steam a fresh cup of milk for another order.

"35th and Everett," she replied. She stopped her coffee-making ministrations, giving Wendy her full attention. "Everything alright?" She asked quietly, leaning forward slightly, almost conspiratorially.

Wendy was touched by the concern she heard in the girl's tone, even as the words brought to mind the same question the Flash had asked her last night.

"Yeah," Wendy said, hoping she sounded convincing. "I just – need to follow up on something."

The girl didn't seem to entirely believe her but, much to Wendy's surprise and relief, she didn't press her further. She held up a hand, as if to say _hold on a moment_, and disappeared into the back room behind the counter. She returned seconds later and held out a white business card for Wendy to take.

"My dad is a detective at the precinct," she told her, as Wendy took the card hesitantly. "Good luck."

Wendy found herself actually smiling now at the girl's kindness, even if her stomach had begun to form knots. She wasn't entirely sure this was going to be a good idea, but she needed to know. Last night had left her shaken, had left Pete nearly in need of a ventilator, and who knows else in critical condition. . .

She left Jitters and hailed a cab, headed for the precinct.


End file.
